Worth Waiting For
by Kyra4
Summary: SSHG, set 6 years postHogwarts. A common cold serves as an uncommon catalyst... Some of my fics are rated M for language only. This is not one of them. This is M for a reason, people. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

WORTH WAITING FOR

Standard Chapter 1 Disclaimer: All of the characters and any recognizable places belong to JKR, not to me. I am not benefiting financially in any way from writing Harry Potter Fanfiction. To the contrary, it takes time _away_ from my coursework, and from original writing that I maybe _could_ benefit financially from. Gah! What can I say, I'm just hooked.

A/N: This was written as a Christmas gift for a good friend. (She wrote me one too!) The things she asked me to include are as follows:

Rating: NC-17, baby

Five things to include:

1. Snape has a fetish, and I don't want it to be any Muggle fetish I've heard of before.

2. They work in the same sphere, but they don't work together every day.

3. They're both secretly in love with each other.

4. Nargles (Luna says they infest mistletoe).

5. Waffles.

Three things NOT to include:

1. Hogwarts (it can be mentioned, but I'd rather not see it).

2. Harry, Ron, or McGonagall.

3. Giants.

I'll just take the bull by the horns and say right here that I included every single thing she asked me not to, except giants… but they are only mentioned, not "seen", and I think she's forgiven me :P

You see where she asked for an NC-17 rating? Yeah, right up there. So, this fic gets a little smutty. I might end up posting later chapters over at Adult Fan Fiction. If I do that I'll provide a link to it in my profile page.

NOTE: However much of the fic I post HERE is edited down to a "hard R", or M as the case may be, omitting certain words and… um… deeds that would blatantly exceed the M cutoff for this site. At this point, with this first chapter, I will wait a couple of days and take my cues from my reviewers- so far the majority of the reviews have been enthusiastic, but one person has suggested that the fic is inappropriate for this site. If I get anymore reviews to that effect, I will probably take it down. It is not my intent to offend anyone… but let me say again that this is your warning- if you don't approve of sexual content in M rated fics, then hit the back button now.

This is Severus Snape / Hermione Granger, post-Hogwarts. My first non-Dramione het pairing fic. And it's going to be about 3 – 4 chapters long. Thank you to Maureen for beta-ing!

Still with me? All right, let's go!

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"Merlin, what a day," Hermione said tiredly, sliding into the worn vinyl booth across from Padma. It felt later than it was… but that had to do as much with the time of the year as with the long hours she'd been working lately. The sun was setting early these days, and the weather was terribly cold. She unwrapped the scarf that had been looped several times about her neck, stifling a yawn behind it as she did so.

Thursday night at eight-thirty sharp; it had become a weekly ritual between Hermione and her former Ravenclaw year-mate. Back in school Hermione had never really had a close girlfriend; she supposed that Ginny was the nearest thing she'd had, but that had really been a friendship of convenience, when one came right down to it. Not that she disliked Ginny; that wasn't it at all… but the two young women had never really had any common interests. The basis of their relationship, such as it was, had been all the time they'd spent together during their holidays, not to mention being Housemates at Hogwarts. It had been more a question of being thrown together by circumstance than making any sort of an effort at friendship. They hadn't chosen each other; it had been sort of like… well, Hermione liked to imagine that it had been sort of like sisterhood- not that she had any reality-based idea of what sisterhood was actually like. And now that the baby of the Weasley clan was a mother herself- to twins, no less- all grown up and married to the savior of the wizarding world, Hermione had less in common with her than she ever had… for all that she was godmother to baby Lily. Ginny, for all her characteristic redhead's feistiness and spunk, had settled beautifully into the domestic sphere, whereas Hermione was the same as she had ever been- a certified workaholic.

As was Padma Patil. The two young women had recently found each other in the course of their work- the first time Hermione had seen either of the Patil twins since their parents had yanked them out of school at the end of their sixth year- which had _been_ six years ago. She had connected quickly with Padma, who was quieter and more serious than her twin Parvati- with whom Hermione had shared a dormitory during her time at Hogwarts. These days Padma was as work-obsessed as Hermione, and like Hermione, more or less had a black hole where her social life should be. And as the two enjoyed one another's company, and it was helpful to be able to tell parents and other concerned parties who thought they were overworking themselves that they'd been out to dinner with a friend only a few days ago, what had begun as a single catching-up-on-old-times date had morphed naturally into a weekly tradition.

Now Padma leaned forward across the table, a hint of a smile hovering about the corners of her mouth. "He's here," she said quietly. "Just arrived five minutes ago."

"_What?_" Hermione's gaze swept the length and breadth of the greasy spoon diner that had become Padma's and her regular dinner spot. Finally she made him out, alone at the end of the bar, half-hidden in shadow, perusing a menu with singular attention. She tore her eyes quickly away; looked back at her dining companion. Padma was no longer making any attempt to hide her smile- in fact, she was practically grinning from ear to ear.

"You know he's here because of you," she said.

"Nonsense," Hermione hissed, heat and color rising to her cheeks in an instant. "He's here for the same reason we are; it's conveniently located, he works late, and the food's not _too_ atrocious. That's all. He probably comes every night… he hardly seems the type to cook for himself."

Padma shook her head. "I ate here alone two nights ago, and he wasn't here then. He fancies you, Hermione."

Hermione's jaw clenched. "If you don't stop teasing me, you'll be eating here alone tonight, too. I mean it, Padma! He does not fancy me!"

Padma shrugged and schooled her face into an expression of cool indifference. "All right, have it your way," she said nonchalantly, picking up her menu. "I'm just saying is all. It's perfectly obvious; you ought to stop wasting time. He's dead sexy, Hermione."

"Are you _mad?_" Hermione snuck another glance at the end of the bar in spite of herself. "He is old enough to be our _father!_"

Padma rolled her eyes. "There are many more attractive words for what he is than _old_, Hermione. Worldly. Experienced. Mature. I'd have thought that would be just what you'd be looking for in a man."

"Maybe so," Hermione admitted reluctantly, "if I _were_ looking for a man. But I don't have time for one right now. _Mature_ or otherwise. So can we please just drop it and eat?"

"Your loss, my friend," Padma said calmly, "your loss."

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Hermione turned the key in the lock, pushed open her front door. It was nearly ten at night… and if there were ever a time in the course of her day that she allowed herself to relent and wish, even the tiniest bit, that she had someone to share her life with, this would be it- when she returned from a long day's work to a flat that was cold, dark and empty.

She hadn't minded it too much as long as she'd had Crookshanks, but the cat had been middle-aged already way back when Hermione had first acquired him, and had finally, just a few weeks ago, succumbed to the old age that had been creeping slowly but steadily up on him. Since he'd gone to that giant milk dish in the sky, arriving home at night had become almost more than she could bear. It was a quick thing, the wave of loneliness that washed over her each evening as she stepped into the emptiness that was her home- not so much as a friendly meow to greet her- but it was also profound.

As usual, though, she shook it determinedly off- illuminated the room, started a fire and hot water for tea all with a word and a practiced flick of her wand. She had no time for wallowing in self-pity on this or any _other_ night, she told herself sternly- but this night in particular she still had work to do and loads of it. She was giving a big presentation in the morning, and her audience was going to be tough.

In addition to holding a part-time teaching job at Hogwarts- just two days a week; Advanced Muggle Studies and a newly introduced class on non-human relations, both of which were offered only to seventh-year students, she had recently started her own organization for the advancement of non-human rights in wizarding society. And though she had the support of the Ministry, as Arthur Weasley had been appointed Minister of Magic following Scrimgeour's death at the height of the war against Voldemort, she also had her fair share of opposition. Actually, _more_ than her fair share of opposition. The status quo of wizarding society hadn't really changed much in centuries… and a lot of people liked it that way.

Some of her toughest critics would be at her presentation tomorrow. Including but not limited to one Draco Malfoy, now the official head of the Malfoy family- as Lucius has died some months ago in Azkaban- with all the rights, privileges, and political clout that came hand-in-hand with his newly inherited, vast sums of money. He'd remained carefully neutral during most of the war, lying low ever since the tragic night that Snape had spirited him away from Hogwarts- the night that Dumbledore had died. But Draco had never truly changed his spots, and was likely the most powerful, and vocal, opponent Hermione would have to contend with in her quest.

She needed to have all her ducks in a row. It occurred to her that perhaps tea wasn't the way to go tonight after all. No- better make it coffee. Strong coffee.

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She fell diagonally across the bed not long before dawn, without even bothering to turn down the bedclothes. It wouldn't do to get too comfortable- she only had an hour or so to rest.

_Ah… ah… mmmh… AHHH…_

_She'd never felt anything like this before. This was- Oh- her back arched as she gave a great, shuddering gasp- this was TOO intense! The long black hair of her paramour dragged silkily down her body as he planted a hot trail of kisses over her breasts and down her tautly trembling stomach, which was hitching with her breath._

_This was almost too good to be borne_… _she was on sensory overload._

_Ohhhh… mmh… wait…wha-what are you… oh, my GOD!_

_He'd reached the apex of her thighs, had pushed them apart with unyielding strength; he was not going to give her the luxury of being shy. She could hardly breathe, so intense was her anticipation as he planted a kiss on first one inner thigh, then the other. And then- sweet Merlin, and THEN-_

_She would have rocketed straight up off the bed if he hadn't been holding her hard by the hips; pinned to the coverlet, helpless to do anything but endure one crashing wave of ecstasy after another, moaning with complete abandon now, her body beginning to fall into rhythm with his tongue, even as her mind was screaming at her that men's mouths did NOT belong THERE- what would her mother say?_

_And then her capacity for rational thought was swept completely away by the rising tide of sensation, and his hands were moving again, sliding all over her body, so warm and big; up to her breasts to flick at nipples so sensitive they ached_… _back down to the place where no man's hands, no man's mouth, had been before_…_ and something was building now, low in her belly; something was_…_ something_… _was_…

_Oh_… _OHHHH_…

And she woke up.

She was groggy and disoriented, still atop the covers, in a room that was illuminated by watery, mid-winter morning light… with her legs flung wide and an empty, aching need inside and a name on the tip of her tongue and- she gave a shuddering gasp and blushed crimson with the realization- both of her hands thrust well inside her knickers; in the selfsame place her dream lover's mouth had been only seconds before. She pulled them out as if they had been burned; they were sticky; her thighs were sticky too. Still blushing furiously, she turned to look at the clock-

And screamed.

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Over sixteen hours had passed by the time she staggered back through her front door, nearly light-headed with fatigue; it had been the absolute mother of all long and trying days. When she'd glanced over at the clock that morning, still flushed and panting from her dream, it had been to discover that she had slept until a mere half-hour before she was due to give her presentation. She'd been planning to be at the Ministry, setting up by then!

She'd virtually hurled herself out of bed, stumbling and barking her shin on the nightstand in her haste. She hadn't had time to shower, which was an enormous handicap on this of all days, considering the state in which she'd awakened. She was going to have give her presentation at the Ministry… _wet!_ And not squeaky-clean-from-the-shower-wet, either. No, an entirely different sort.

She'd washed her hands vigorously, her face slightly less so; had magicked the wrinkles out of her best business-robes and the snarls out of her hair; had conjured herself a cup of coffee even while stuffing parchments helter-skelter into the leather satchel that had been a gift from Harry on the occasion of her being appointed Hogwarts' youngest teacher in over two hundred years (she'd even beaten McGonagall by three years!) It really bothered her to be missing the little morning routines that meant so much to her- holdovers from her Muggle childhood. She really _enjoyed_ brushing the kinks out of her hair, not charming them away- boiling water for coffee or tea, rather than simply magicking it up. Normally these routines grounded and soothed her; reminded her who she was and where she came from; helped her keep perspective and braced her for the coming day.

She really could have used the comfort and confidence they brought her, today.

The presentation had not been a spectacular failure, which she supposed was some comfort, at any rate, but it had certainly not been an unbridled success either. Draco Malfoy, impeccably dressed and groomed, wearing his hair longer now, in obvious emulation of his deceased (_slimebag_) father, lounging in his chair with his usual air of inherent superiority and cool disdain, had put her through the wringer, all right- every bit as much as she had expected, if not perhaps a wee bit more. She'd hardly managed to get out a _word_ that he hadn't questioned and picked all to pieces. The most encouraging thing about the whole ordeal was that the other members of the panel she'd presented to had promised to mull over her proposals and give her a reply in a week's time, rather than rejecting them outright.

After that she'd barely had time to catch her breath before flooing directly to her office at Hogwarts to teach. She'd stayed at the school for dinner in the Great Hall, and then returned to her office for a long evening of marking papers, followed by a late-night research session- a quest for any information that would help further her organization's cause- in the school library. She still could hardly get over the fact that as a professor she now had around-the-clock access to the treasure-trove of knowledge contained therein.

As usual when it came to books and research- a heady combination, to be sure- she got carried away and lost track of time. So by the time she dropped into bed on this night- managing to burrow under the covers this time, though it felt as if she'd used up her last reserves of strength to do so- it was with a sense of exhaustion so deep that it was nearly a physical ache.

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_His head was between her thighs again, and she was so sensitive there that even his hot breath her exposed skin was driving her to distraction_… _when he flicked his tongue out, it was almost more than she could bear._

_UMMM! Oh God! Wha_… _what are you-? AHH!_

_Shhh. _

_One of his hands began to rub soothing circles on her tummy, the other holding her by one hip as he tongued her mercilessly. She tossed her head helplessly back and forth, unable to do anything but lie there and ride the building wave of_... _of SOMETHING_… _that was possessing her body, making it feel things it had never felt before- making it DO things- oh God, dirty things- she was pushing up against his face now, against his mouth- urging his tongue deeper, the friction greater- and now his hand had left her hip; it was snaking between her legs and his fingers were joining his tongue, rubbing, teasing, finding her opening, starting to press in-_

_OHHH-! _

_Her hips bucked straight up off the bed. In one fluid movement he was stretched out beside her and they were face to face again. He was leaning over her; jet black hair falling across intense, nearly black eyes. She stared dazedly up into those eyes as one of his hands buried itself in the thick, unruly curls that fanned out about her on the bed and the other wandered slowly back down, over her stomach ,lingeringly, tauntingly, to that PLACE- and then started to rub again, in those tight little circles that drove her mad, and her hips were gyrating now, in rhythm with his fingers, and there was that sense of something building again, something that was going to be oh, so good when it broke over her, it was driving her into a frenzy, and- and-_

And she woke up. Again.

With her fingers where they didn't belong- again.

And to add insult to injury, this time she woke with an extremely unladylike snort- because, she found, she could no longer breathe through her nose. It was plugged solid, and her head was pounding. She felt groggy, and unrested, and utterly unwell.

"Ugghh." She groaned as she rolled over and buried her face in the duvet. It was almost tempting just to clear her day and stay in bed.

There was just one problem with this potential scenario. Hermione did not _ever_ clear her day.

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It was a punishing day, too.

Her schedule of research, meetings, recruiting members, publicity and funds for her organization, and marking students' papers left her no time either for lunch or dinner. She subsisted on coffee all day long, and when she returned home past ten at night, she had to force herself to eat a few bites of some three-day-old take-out she scrounged from the fridge. She almost threw it up. She had no appetite whatsoever; if anything, she had counter-appetite. Her nose was actively running now, and her body ached. She took a long bath with her hair piled on top of her head, before pulling on two layers of flannel pajamas and collapsing into bed.

And of course…

_Her hands were fisted in his coal-black hair as he suckled at her breasts, first one and then the other. Her head was thrown back, right off the edge of the bed, and her body was moving with wild abandon, in time to the rhythm of his fingers, two of which were thrusting in and out of her now as he rubbed and flicked with his thumb._

_And this time- this time she was positive that the feeling that was building inside her was finally going to reach its breaking point_… _and oh God, how she wanted it_… _and it was coming- it was coming- it was_… _SHE was_… _cumming_… _oh_… _so_… _HARD_…

_It broke over her in rolling waves of sensation, her hips bucking against his hand, her back arching like a bow, and it was so good, it was GOOD in a way she'd never known good could be, and it was lasting and lasting, she was gasping, nearly sobbing with it, her voice not her own as she cried out in the throes of ecstasy, begging him not to stop, oh God this was what she'd been waiting for all this time, oh please-_

_Don't stop, oh please, Severus, don't-_

"-stop! Severus, don't stop!"

She woke herself shouting out, and she was cumming in reality as well as in her dream, her fingers working furiously, and she couldn't stop herself, even as she tossed her head from side to side in a futile attempt at negating the situation she found herself in, even as she blushed scarlet with shame, she was _still cumming, _and hard.

It took several moments for her to come down; minor tremors, the aftershocks of an incredible orgasm, were still wracking her body a full five minutes later as she lay panting, staring up at the ceiling in shock, tears beginning to gather in the corners of her eyes.

"What… is… wrong… with…me?" she whispered between hitching, almost painful breaths. "I can't have him! I shouldn't want him! He was my teacher… my _teacher! _What is _WRONG with me?_" And she threw herself onto her stomach, and burrowed her face into her pillow, and cried.

Why did she only want what she couldn't have? It tore her up to come home to a dark, empty flat every night when all around her, her friends were getting engaged, getting married, starting families. And the only man in whom she'd ever felt more than a passing interest since she'd left her school days, and her whirlwind teenage affair with Quidditch superstar Viktor Krum, behind her was… was… her erstwhile _teacher! _

Severus Snape, former Potions Master and current Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts; Severus Snape, unlikely war hero, whom Harry had watched kill Albus Dumbledore atop the school's highest tower, who'd been condemned and hated as a foul, black-hearted traitor until it had come to light, in the course of the epic final battle of Voldemort's second war, that he had been acting with great reluctance, and only upon Dumbledore's express orders; that he'd been loyal to the late headmaster and to the Order of the Phoenix all the time. Severus Snape, who, at great risk to his own life and limb, had betrayed Voldemort at the crucial moment in order to give Harry Potter the edge he needed to win the war.

Severus Snape, reinstated to his teaching position in the wake of the war and given the Order of Merlin to boot; her co-worker now, who nodded to her when they passed in the halls at Hogwarts; who had once pulled out her chair for her when she'd arrived late and frazzled for dinner in the Great Hall. Severus Snape, the dark figure at the end of the bar every time she and Padma met for their weekly rendezvous. Severus Snape, who was bound to attract her with his fierce intelligence and dedication to his work; dark, quiet, enigmatic, brooding. And old enough to be her father. Or, as Padma had it, worldly; experienced; mature.

Severus Snape, who'd once called her an _insufferable little know-it-all_, who would never, in a million years, return the interest of a silly little girl like her. Severus Snape whom she could never have; who would laugh her to scorn if he had _any idea _of her stupid, childish crush…

She pounded her pillow with her fists and howled in frustration.

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She felt no better that morning than she had the previous one. In fact, she felt worse. In addition to being stuffed up, headachy and unrested due to her vivid and… _disturbing _dreams, now she was puffy-eyed and exhausted from crying- she felt, in effect, worse than if she hadn't gone to bed at all.

Something had to be done.

As she dragged herself out of bed and into the shower, she made a mental note to stop by a potions shop on the way to work and pick up a large dose of Dreamless Sleep potion.

The next few days blended one into another- a haze of snow and aching-cold weather; of breathing through her mouth because her nose was so consistently plugged. Of meetings, and research, and presentations; and teaching, and marking papers, and headaches; and late nights in the library, and Slytherin students who seemed to sense the weakness in her and gave her ten times more sass than normal.

If there was anything to be thankful for, she supposed, it was the semblance of normalcy that returned to her sleep. Even with the potion, her slumber was not entirely untroubled- she began starting awake two or three times in the night, heart thudding in her chest, positive that there had been a dream- a _powerful _dream- that had been just on the verge of ripping through the thin, false veneer of potion-induced peace. But she didn't wake any more with sticky fingers, or with frantically intense orgasms crashing over her, or with that _name_ on the tip of her tongue.

And that, at least, was a relief.

Or so she told herself, so many times and with such vehemence that she even began to believe it.

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"Hermione, my God! You look _awful!_"

"Why thank you; it's nice to see you too," she said wearily, sinking into the booth across from Padma. She criss-crossed her arms on the worn laminate surface of the table and dropped her head onto them.

"Hermione, I'm _serious_. You shouldn't be here; you're _ill_."

"I'm _not_, I'm just tired," she insisted, raising her head, aware even as she spoke that the congested, nasal quality of her voice was giving her away.

"Bollocks," Padma said flatly. "How long have you been unwell? Last week you were fine."

"I- it's just- I've been having some trouble sleeping lately. I've been having these…" almost against her will, her eyes flicked to the end of the bar, seeking out the man among the shadows there, and her voice dropped to a raw whisper- "these dreams."

Padma looked from Hermione over to Snape, and then back again. Hermione could almost _see_ her friend's sharp mind working furiously, and she knew immediately, with a sinking feeling deep in her stomach, that in her sorry state she'd gone and let her guard down, and had said too much. She knew it even before the slow grin spread across Padma's face.

"Hermione Granger," Padma said, leaning forward over the table and dropping her voice conspiratorially, "you've been having naughty dreams, haven't you? You bad girl! You've been having wet dreams- about _him!_"

"Oh God," Hermione choked, and raised her hands to cover her suddenly burning face.

"I _knew_ it," Padma whispered gleefully, "I've known it for ages! You _do _fancy him right back! Look, why don't we ask him to join us right now? I'll just nip over and get him, won't be a minute-"

"_NO!_" Hermione's voice was strangled, but the desperation in it was unmistakable. "Padma, please- no. I'm just- I can't- not now. Please? I don't- I'm not- not up to it right now." (_And I never will be_, she added mentally)- but it would be enough of an accomplishment, for the moment, simply to get Padma off of this disastrous track. Invite him over, indeed! What on earth _for?_ So her humiliation, bad enough now that Padma knew what she'd been dreaming about lately, could be made complete? So Padma could blurt out that she, Hermione, _fancied_ him, and he could grace her with one of those singularly haughty looks- his trademark- as if she were something he'd just scraped off the bottom of his boot? How would she ever face him again after that! She _wouldn't_, that was the long and short of it- she wouldn't be able to bring herself to look at him ever again. She'd have to resign her teaching position! Merlin, it would be a catastrophe.

"All right," Padma was agreeing, with obvious reluctance, "all right, Hermione, but only because I can see you're not well. _Next _week, he's eating with us."

_Next week you're eating alone_, Hermione thought mutinously… but she didn't really mean it. She valued Padma's friendship, and she valued these dinners- even if she wasn't particularly hungry tonight. And she'd just bought herself a week's time- she'd figure something out. She would. Just not tonight. She was just so tired right now… Merlin, she was so _tired_.

"Thanks." Her exhaustion was showing plainly in her voice now; she was aware of it, and knew that Padma was too. "Listen, I think you're right… I shouldn't be here, I'm not… feeling great, and I'm not all that hungry. I'm sorry, Padma. I'll see you in a week?"

"You must be mental. As if I would send you out alone in the snow, in _this state_. We'll get some food to carry out- _both _of us- you probably haven't eaten anything in at least two days, I know you, Hermione- and we're taking it back to your flat, and eating there. And then I am personally putting you to bed. That's what you're going to agree to, in return for me not calling _him _over here right this minute." Her voice turned threatening; "I could still do it, you know. Maybe we _ought _to let him be the one to take you home and put you to bed-" (a meditative look came over Padma's face that terrified Hermione far more than the threatening tone she'd used a second ago-) "yes, in fact, that might be a better course of action altogether…"

"For God's sake, Padma, _no!_ Can't you _see _that's the last thing I want?"

Padma shook her head sadly. "You're fighting the inevitable, Hermione. Or actually, no, it's worse than that. You're fighting what was _meant to be_… but it's not inevitable, not anymore. Your chance is slipping away and the person you're hurting most by letting it go is yourself."

Hermione was already on her feet.

Moments later, as Padma, laden with carry-out boxes, preceded her out of the diner's door, she couldn't help herself taking just one last glance over her shoulder; her eyes seeking out the man at the end of the bar.

He was looking straight back at her, his own eyes as dark and hooded and inscrutable as ever.


	2. Chapter 2

_Home. Oh, thank God. And it's Friday night. I can actually rest._

A blast of freezing air and a several swirling snowflakes accompanied her in through the door. She had rarely been so relieved to get back to her modest little flat. It wasn't that today had been an extraordinarily long or difficult day; just that she'd been so fatigued from beginning to end. She'd had to take three separate doses of Pepper-Up Potion just to be able to keep functioning at an energy level even close to normal.

Her logical self could no long deny that all right, all _right_, she was feeling a little run down. She fully intended to take care of it, too- she would get a good night's sleep tonight. _After_ she'd gotten all her work done, of course.

There was something bothering her, though; teasing the very edges of her mind. She just couldn't shake the feeling that she'd come home too soon. Had forgotten about something important.

It was all very abstract, though. She couldn't remember having any engagements for tonight, and Hermione Jane Granger did not forget important engagements, so if she couldn't remember one than there must not be one.

The logic was flawless.

She'd barely dropped her bag to the floor and shrugged out of her coat and scarf, leaving them draped over the back of a kitchen chair, when the doorbell rang. She groaned out loud; she _so_ did not feel up to company.

She was working on the plait in her hair as she approached the door, glanced out the peephole, and then quickly opened it to reveal-

"Ginevra Potter! What on earth are _you_ doing here?"

Standing on the other side of the door, looking both very pretty and very cold in a dark blue, snow-dusted traveling cloak and a scarf wrapped several times around her neck and up over her chin, her flaming hair stuffed into a winter hat- a hand-knitted Molly Weasley specialty- with just a few bright red tendrils escaping here and there, was Hermione's former Housemate, and Harry's wife. Leaving her braid half undone, Hermione ushered her quickly into the flat.

"I brought you a few things," Ginny said, walking straight to Hermione's small scrubbed-oak table and depositing the bundle she'd been carrying on top of it. "I heard you were under the weather."

Hermione stared at her in frank amazement. "Where did you hear _that?_ I haven't said anything to Harry or Ron."

"Padma Patil," Ginny said distractedly, as she began emptying the contents of her parcel onto Hermione's nearby kitchen counter. There was a large covered bowl, a heavy thermos, and a couple of small, yet very healthy and vibrant looking, potted herbs. Opening Hermione's cupboard, she pulled out a pot, set it on the stovetop, dumped the contents of the bowl into it, and turned on the heat.

"But you don't talk to Padma," said Hermione, flummoxed, "do you?"

"Not to Padma, to _Parvati_," Ginny said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "She brought her son over for a play-date with the twins today. She said Padma saw you last night, and that she said you were ill. So I brought you some homemade chicken soup, and some of mum's special tea, you know, the sort you really like. And a couple of aromatic clippings from my windowsill garden. They won't help you with your cold, but they do brighten a place up in the middle of the winter. Listen, I know I ought to stay and watch you eat this, but it's nearly time to feed the twins and put them down for the night… and Harry just can't handle it all on his own. He says he can, mind you, but I know better. So I've got to go- but you must promise you'll eat some of it, Hermione. Won't you?"

Hermione couldn't help but smile- how very like her mother Ginny had become, with all her bustling about and her domestic offerings and her air of distracted, almost maternal concern. "Yes, I'll have some as soon as it's warm," she said, "and then I'm straight to bed."

Ginny grinned back at her. "Liar," she said. "You have no intention of going straight to bed. Just do all those who care about you a favor and don't go out again tonight; if you've work to do, do it at home, and don't stay up _too_ late. If you venture out in that weather again you're sure to get worse, not better."

"Deal," Hermione said. "Thanks, Gin. It smells good already." This last was a lie; her nose had been consistently plugged for days. She couldn't smell a thing.

"Not a problem. Harry always says the portions I make are far too big anyway. But what can I say- I learned to cook from my mum. Oh, speaking of which, she said to ask you to dinner at the Burrow on Sunday- Ron will be in town; the Cannons're playing a home game. So you _have _to take care of yourself and get better. If you miss him Sunday, I've no idea when he'll be back."

Just inside the door she paused one more time. "Oh, I nearly forgot," she said, thrusting one hand deep into a pocket of her cloak. "Harry sent these along for you. He reckons you need them both. Bye, Hermione… feel better, all right?"

And she was gone in a blast of cold air, leaving Hermione standing by the door and looking down at the two items in her hands. A package of Muggle flu medication; TheraFlu, to be exact; and a sprig of mistletoe.

00000

She was asleep in her bathrobe, with her arms folded on the kitchen table and her head resting on them, the second time the doorbell rang. She bolted upright with a guilty start- she had meant to get twenty essays graded tonight, and she'd barely got through four… and besides which there was still that nagging, teasing feeling that she'd forgotten something major- had messed up _big_ in some profound way.

She got to her feet too quickly, sending her head spinning, and had to take a moment to steady herself. By this time whoever was on the other side of her front door had commenced pounding on it.

"I'm _coming!_" she called, belting her robe more tightly about herself and making for the door. She'd had a feeling she hadn't seen the end of Ginny when the redhead had left, reluctantly, three hours or so ago. Honestly, chicken soup couldn't cure _everything_- not even wizarding chicken soup.

Not that she needed curing. She'd taken a double dose of cold medicine; that should be more than enough- since there was nothing really wrong with her, anyway. Nothing a good night's sleep couldn't fix… which she intended to indulge in just as soon as she'd marked those twenty essays. Which she'd have an easier time doing if well-intentioned Weasleys- sorry, Potters- oh, who could keep it straight anymore?- didn't keep knocking on her door!

She chose to ignore the fact that she'd been dozing, rather than working, just a moment ago.

Her head was too foggy to come up with a good justification for that, so for the time being she let it slide.

"I told you, Ginny," she groused as she unlocked the door and swung it open, "for Merlin's sake, I'm-" and then she saw who it was.

She just stood there for a long, long moment, staring- her groggy, unwell state, in addition to the shock of finding this particular person on her doorstep, had robbed her of her normal sense of social protocol. Several seconds passed before she realized that her mouth was hanging open and she shut it with a snap. She blinked. When she opened her eyes, he was still there. She blinked again, holding her eyes shut this time; _one… two… three_-

When she opened them a second time, he was _still there._

"Oh," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "It's you."

"Well spotted, Miss Granger," said Severus Snape. "May I come in? I'll only take a moment of your time."

"I… erm… of course." She stepped back to allow him entrance.

00000

"Can I… um… offer you anything?" she asked a moment later, having closed the door and turned to face him once more. He was standing in her small foyer, clad in black as usual, arms crossed over his chest, giving her what appeared to be a highly critical once-over.

"You look like hell, Granger," he said bluntly, dropping the prefix. "Are you unwell?"

Hermione felt herself flushing. "It's very nice to see you too," she snapped. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, may I ask? And… and how did you even find me? I'm unlisted."

"That may be so," Snape replied calmly, "but the Headmistress knows your address, and it was she who sent me. She was concerned by your absence at this evening's gala faculty dinner; the one at which we greeted the delegations from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and commenced discussions about reinstating the Triwizard Tournament within the next few years… seeing as you live outside the castle, as do I, your absence would not in itself have been overly alarming but for the fact that you were the head of that particular committee, and so naturally…"

He trailed off, his features registering mounting concern. And not surprisingly, either, as Hermione had just swayed dangerously on the spot. She managed to catch herself up against the entryway wall.

"Miss Granger, you've gone as white as a sheet. Do you need assistance?"

She was almost positive she heard genuine worry in his voice.

"No," she whispered. "No, no, I can't have missed that, it was penciled in, I've been preparing for weeks… and what will Professor McGonagall think of me, I'll be asked to resign, I've embarrassed the entire school, this is an international incident, oh my God, this can't be happening, this is not real, this is a nightmare, this is… wait… this… is…" her voice trailed gradually into nothing… and then, amazingly, she smiled. It was a strange, dopey, delirious smile.

"Oh, I _know _what this is," she said then, slowly, "it isn't real at all! As if _you_, of all people, would really just show up at my door. This _is _just a dream, and I haven't missed the gala, and in a moment you're going to sweep me off my feet and carry me into the bedroom, and take off my clothes and do dirty, wicked things to me, until I wake with sticky fingers- _again!_ Well, not this time, I'm on to you. I'm just going to wake myself up right now!"

And she pinched herself, hard, on the arm.

And nothing happened.

Nothing happened for a long time, as the two of them stared at each other; Snape agog as very few people had ever seen him, and Hermione registering with mounting horror that the situation in which she found herself was most certainly _not_ an erotic dream.

"Oh Merlin," she managed at last in a small voice that was absolutely sick with mortification, "this isn't a dream at all, is it? You're… you're really here. Oh, God help me… just let me die now… this can't possibly get any worse."

And then her knees went right out from under her.

She slid down the wall to land hard on her bum on the floor.

"Hermione!"

It was the first time he had ever called her by her given name, but she barely registered it. She was nearly past registering even the sight of him, on one knee in front of her, almost impossibly fast, or the feel of his hands on her shoulders as he gripped her hard and gave her a little shake.

"Hermione. Hermione?" He pressed a hand to her forehead; to each of her cheeks in turn. "Bloody hell, you're burning up. Come on." And he scooped her into his arms.

She screwed her eyes shut and buried her face in his chest immediately; it was far preferable to meeting his eyes, after all, and a better alternative than mounting a struggle against him, for which she didn't have the strength. He felt cool against her skin; the fabric of his shirt scratchy against her cheek; the body beneath it sinewy and hard.

He carried her over to the sofa; deposited her gently on it. "Hermione," he said again, sinking down beside her on the edge of the couch, "how long have you been ill? And why didn't you see me for a potion? Or if not me, then at least Poppy, for Merlin's sake? You're so goddamn stubborn sometimes- why didn't you ask for _help?_"

Hermione swallowed- took a deep, shuddering breath- tried to collect herself. Everything felt distant and floaty now; dreamlike, unreal. She knew that he was only inches away from her, but she had to really concentrate and listen hard to make out what he was saying. She felt as if someone had turned down the volume on her life; as if she had cotton stuffed into both ears.

It wasn't exactly an unpleasant feeling; in fact, she thought, as she let her head fall back among the sofa cushions and allowed all of the tension to ebb out of her body, she could easily drift away right here and now. The papers she had meant to mark seemed distant and unimportant to her now; even the gala dinner debacle was beginning to fade, mercifully, from her consciousness. Only the humiliation of her recent comments to Snape remained fresh and sharp and painful in her mind. And that was directly attributable to the fact that he was sitting so close to her that she could _smell_ him- the faint, pleasantly spicy aroma of a dozen different potion ingredients. She kept her eyes closed and lay there and just wished, wished, _wished_ that he would simply go away and leave her alone with her shame.

No such luck, though. He didn't appear inclined to go anywhere, as evidenced by his next words.

"Hermione, I am _not _leaving you alone here in this state," he said quietly, almost as though he'd read her mind, "regardless of your apparent determination to ignore me."

She turned her face away from his voice, burrowing it into a handy cushion.

She heard him sigh.

"Very well, if you are dead set on being difficult. I'll be back in a moment. Do not even _attempt_ to move, do you hear me? Stay. Where. You. Are."

She felt the couch shift as he stood; heard the muted thud of his boots across her floor. The front door opened; shut.

For the time being, at least, she was alone.

A hazy notion floated across her mind that she ought to follow him to the door and lock it after him; enchant it, even, to prevent him from gaining reentry… because he'd made it pretty clear that he intended to return.

She liked that idea; liked it so well that she indulged herself in imagining it, in minute and vivid detail, as she lay there on the couch- too lethargic, in reality, to move more than a few inches; she wriggled over onto her side and curled into a tight little ball facing the sofa-back. She wished there was something on hand with which to cover herself; she was feeling suddenly and increasingly cold. There was a fleece throw blanket tossed over the far end of the couch, way down past her feet… but as far as she was concerned it might as well have been a mile away. She did not feel equal to the effort which would be required to retrieve it.

Beads of perspiration began to dot her forehead, but she was unaware of them. What she _was_ aware of, marginally, at least, was that her teeth had begun to chatter.

She'd lapsed into something akin to semi-consciousness by the time he returned. She wasn't aware of him entering her flat at all; all of a sudden he was just there, looming over her, taking her by the shoulder and tugging her gently but insistently onto her back again. The effort of turning and opening her eyes made her head swim sickly. His face appeared wavery and indistinct, as if she were looking up at him through a thick heat haze… though heat was the furthest thing from what she was feeling at the moment. She was chilled to the bone. She was _freezing_.

"_SHIT_," he said, with feeling.

This struck her funny for some reason. He was a man who prided himself on his intellect, and resorting to swear words was almost ludicrously out of character for him, after all. She gave a weak little snort of mirth. "Language, Professor," she whispered.

He was in the process of unstoppering a small pewter flask he'd pulled out of his pocket. He lifted her head and held it to her lips. "Drink this," he said, and tipped the liquid into her mouth.

It burned all the way down her throat, sending her into a spasm of violent coughing. She wrenched herself into a sitting position; then folded over double so that her head was nearly between her knees. By the time she flopped back against the cushions, gasping, Snape was several feet away in the kitchen. She could hear him moving about in there, but she couldn't tell what he was doing. She didn't want to sit up again and turn around to find out.

She _did_ feel a whole lot more clear-headed now, though.

"Wha- what kind of po- hotion was that?" she finally sputtered out.

"That was not a potion, Miss Granger, it was Firewhisky," came his voice from the other room.

Hermione choked all over again.

"It's alcohol, not poison," he said dryly. "And it's cleared your thinking and warmed you up a bit, has it not?"

This was true- her teeth were no longer chattering.

"So now you can give me the information I need," he continued. "How long have you been ill? What have you been doing about it? And why haven't you sought any medical attention?"

"I- I- it's just a _cold_," she stammered. "I've been feeling… under the weather, for a few days now, but… I never thought it was worth _seeing _anyone about. And anyway, I don't have _time_ to be sick! I have far too much to do. I told my mum I wasn't feeling well. She sent me some Sudafed… and Tylenol. That's all I've taken."

"Sudafed? _Tylenol?_ What the devil are _they?_"

"M-Muggle cold remedies," she said, in a suddenly small voice. She had a feeling he wasn't going to like that much.

She was right.

"_Muggle cold remedies?_" he echoed, and he could hardly have sounded more disgusted if she'd just told him she'd been drinking regular doses of Mrs. Norris' piss. Hermione actually cringed a little at the tone of his voice… but only for a moment. Then she did what she usually did when any aspect of her Muggle heritage was questioned. She bristled.

"Well, my _mum_ sent them," she repeated, "and besides, Muggle remedies kept me alive and well until I got to Hogwarts, didn't they? They can't be _all_ rubbish, thank you very much."

"Hm." He hardly sounded convinced, but he said no more about it. Instead he returned to the sofa, bearing a cup and saucer. He looked strangely incongruous; tall, dark and angular as he was, holding the delicate shell-pink china cup- part of a set that had been a flat-warming gift from Luna and Ron. She'd never quite been able to figure that out, come to think of it- a tea service seemed altogether too _normal_ a gift to have been chosen for her by Luna, yet she could hardly imagine Ron walking into a store and picking out something so… well, _pink_. Actually, scratch that- she could hardly imagine Ron walking into a store at all, unless it was a Quidditch, joke, or sweet shop. She'd always suspected that Molly'd had a hand in it, or maybe Fleur… not that she'd ever know for sure. In any event, it definitely looked rather silly in Severus Snape's large, calloused hand. She had to fight back the urge to giggle again.

Merlin. She was delirious.

He sat down this time on the edge of the coffee table, holding the cup out to her. "Sit up and drink this," he said curtly, and as she took it from him and raised it to her lips he unfastened his traveling cloak, swept it off, and covered her with it all in one fluid motion.

She felt warmth seeping back into her, both from the heavy black cloak now draped over her and from the liquid in the teacup- aromatic and hot, but not in the burning, choking way the Firewhisky had been hot; this was a pleasant and comforting warmth. It was almost… _narcotic_…

The cup slipped from fingers that were rapidly going numb. Snape seemed to have expected this- he was leaning toward her already, and caught it easily out of the air.

"Wha… whadidju… givme?" she slurred, falling back once more- except now, and she recognized this fact with only dim surprise in her suddenly drugged and torpid state- she did not fetch up against the sofa cushions. She fetched up against _him_.

He'd slipped behind her on the couch when she'd sat up straight to drink, so that now she fell back against his chest, her head clunking on his collar bone. "What…" she swallowed thickly, "what're you…" try as she might, she couldn't seem to finish her thought. When his voice came, it was right in her ear. She could feel the vibration in his chest- a deep rumbling, so quintessentially _masculine_- as he spoke.

"Is this all right, Hermione? Would you rather I put you to bed?"

"N-no… s'fine… please don'go."

His arms wrapped around her from behind, hands clasping over her stomach, on top of the cloak. Her eyes were falling closed, an incredible feeling of safety and security washing over her. "Wha… s'happening?" she managed with difficulty.

"You're being healed, of course," he said. "It's the best remedy there is… my own personal creation. Still, it doesn't work instantly; it will take a couple of hours, at least. You're quite sick- you let this go on for far too long, pushed yourself too hard, Hermione. You're running a fever and you're going to have to sweat it out until it breaks. I'll stay right here with you… unless you'd rather I… summoned someone else. Potter, perhaps? Your mother? Although I confess I have limited experience with Muggle communication devices-"

"No." The word was barely more than an exhalation. "Stay."

"If you insist." She almost thought she heard a trace of a smile in his voice… but she was well beyond the point where she could trust her senses. She just knew that she was warm again… and drowsy… and wrapped up in strong arms… the arms she'd wanted around her for _so _long… though the only time she'd been able to fully admit it to herself was in her sleep.

She could feel his chest rise and fall as he breathed. It was lulling her, lulling her… she was drifting away. Her last conscious thought was that she hoped her hands didn't find their way into her knickers again, right there on the couch with him holding her.

00000

As it turned out, sweating out the fever, as he'd called it, was anything but a bed of roses. She only got perhaps an hour of quality sleep before she tossed awake again- and now she was hot; every bit as hot as she'd been cold before. She tried to kick off the cloak that was covering her- _stifling _her- but Snape was having none of it. He kept his arms tight around her, holding her relatively immobile and holding the cloak in place.

"You're going to have to fight through this, Hermione," he murmured into her ear.

She tossed her head restlessly from side to side, whimpered, tried to wriggle free. When she wouldn't stop kicking at the heavy cloak he wrapped his legs around her too, effectively immobilizing hers.

"_No!_" she half-sobbed. "nuh… please… I'm _hot!_"

"I know," he murmured. "I know. The fever has to break, Hermione. I'm sorry. You've got to ride this out."

The minutes wore into hours. Hermione struggled herself into complete exhaustion, lay still for a long time panting, her hair now damp with perspiration where it lay tousled against his chest and shoulder and neck, then tossed her head and began to struggle again. At one point she thrashed so hard that she managed to wrench herself completely over, so that now she was sprawled face-down across his chest and body, her cheek once again pressed into the fabric of his shirt, her hair now positively _everywhere_; slow, tired tears of frustration leaking from her eyes.

"Please," she whispered brokenly, "please, I can't… I don't want to be sick anymore."

"You're almost there," he said, "you're almost through it. Stay strong, Hermione." One of his hands buried itself in the hot, tangled, now near-sodden thicket of her hair; began stroking it soothingly, teasing apart the snarls.

"I don't understand," she whispered moments later, some semblance of clarity beginning to return to her thoughts. "Why are you here? Why didn't you take me to the hospital wing? Why… why are you… doing… _why?_"

He was quiet for a long time… long enough that she became convinced that he wasn't going to answer, and started to wonder whether she'd even asked him those questions at all, or whether she hadn't imagined doing so, the way she'd earlier imagined following him to the door and locking him out.

But then he spoke.

"I didn't take you to the hospital wing, Hermione, because I couldn't have held on to you there. And I've wanted to hold you for so long. For _so _long. And I doubt I'll ever get another chance. That's why I stayed here. Because sick or well, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And in the morning everything will be as it was before, and I'll cease to be anything to you except a greasy old man who once tormented you in potions class. But I'll-" his arms tightened around her, almost convulsively, almost _fiercely_- the hand that was buried in her hair pressing her head down hard against his chest- "I'll have this to hold onto. And it will be enough. This night will be enough. Shit, I- I might as well say it all; it's not as if you're likely to remember. I love you, Hermione. Bloody hell. I've loved you for years. And I expect I will for years to come. And I know I can never have you; you deserve someone as young and as… pure and as _whole_ as you are… but knowing that doesn't change the fact. I love you and I always will. Now go to sleep and I promise you'll wake alone in your bed. I will never burden you with my unwelcome attentions again… you deserve better than that."

And Hermione began to cry in earnest.

She had struggled herself into complete inertia, and had been lying more or less in a boneless heap on top of him, but now she tightened her arms about him to the best of her ability, hands fisting in his shirt. And it was only a matter of seconds, really, before the first forlorn little sniffles had morphed with astonishing speed and strength, into great, body-wracking, nearly alarming sobs.

"Hermione, my God, what is it?"

"I'm still dreaming!" she choked out, speaking into his chest, her words so badly muffled as to be nearly incomprehensible, "I thought for a while that I was awake, that you were truly h-here, but now I know better! You would never say… that you loved me, not really… you think that I'm an insufferable, _buck toothed_, know-it-all little girl, and that's all you'll _ever _think of me! It really is just another one of those dreams, I wo-hon't ever escape them! Oh God, I can't take it anymore! I'm so _tired_ of waking up alone! And of coming home alone! And eating alone! And going to bed alone! Please, I don't want to be alone any mo-ho-hore!"

She gradually became aware, even through her tears, of the fact that he had suddenly gone very, very tense beneath her- though still reclining on the couch, he had turned abruptly as stiff as a board. His hands found her upper arms; gripped her there so tightly it hurt.

"Hermione." His voice sounded cautious now… distrustful… _hard_. There was an unmistakable edge to it. "What are you trying to say?"

She had reached a place of such profound upset that she was having trouble stringing her words together… but still she tried. She was past caring, now, how foolish this admission made her look- past even her fear of his response to what she was saying; the rejection- pity- contempt she was sure to see in his face, hear in his voice, once she was through. She had to get this out, and she had to do it right now. He had talked about breaking the fever, well, this was how she needed to do it; this _was_ a fever, a slow-burning fever that had been eating her alive for the past few years. Wanting him, _needing _him, desperately and in silence; it was poison; it was killing her from the inside out. Come hell or high water, whether this be dream or reality, she was going to tell him everything. Right now.

"That I _want _this!" she sobbed, nearly hysterically. "This is what I've wanted for so long! This, right now- I want… I want to fall asleep and I want to wake up and I want you to still be here! And I want to go to work and I want to come home and I want you to _still be here!_ If I wake up alone and this was all just another dream it'll kill me, do you understand? It will kill me because it seems so real and I don't want it to end!"

His fingers were gripping her now so hard they would have to leave bruises. Under other circumstances she would have cried out from the pain of it- but she was already crying out from an emotional anguish so great that the physical pain paled in comparison. And Snape was sitting up, now, shifting her off of him- actually, _shoving _her off would be a more apt description. And his face… it was… well, _closed_- all expression wiped off it as abruptly as if he'd slammed down the cover of a book. He looked as cold and as distant and as inaccessible to her as he ever had, as far back as she could remember.

He was speaking; a low, distracted rush of words- but even though he was addressing her, his speech seemed intended more for himself.

"You're not yourself. You don't know what you're saying. I'm the one who's older, who's not running a temperature, who's in my right mind. I've let this go far enough." He began to unfold himself from the sofa; to get to his feet. "This was a terrible mistake. Sweet Merlin, what was I thinking? I'm going to floo someone to come and sit with you immed-"

And suddenly, Hermione didn't care anymore whether this was a dream, or delirium, or fantasy or reality, or right or wrong. This was what she wanted; _he_ was what she wanted. This whole situation was the culmination of all her deepest longings come to life. And she was not. Going to let him. Get away.

Before he'd managed to get more than halfway to his feet, she threw herself at him; flinging her arms about his neck with a frantic little cry- all of her unhappiness, loneliness, longing, articulated in a single desperate sound- and then she virtually _crashed_ her lips into his, catching him off-balance and pulling him back down so that now their positions were reversed; she on the bottom and he on the top, and kissing him as if her life depended on it, because in a very real way, it did. Not literally, of course… but in almost as important a respect.

She couldn't let him go. She couldn't. All of her potential for future happiness hung on this man, this moment, this kiss… because for her, there was no other, and there never would be. She saw it now, in a brilliant flash of clarity as her lips moved against his, restlessly, frantically, seeking entry to his mouth (to his heart, to his _soul_)- she saw and accepted consciously- at last, at _last_- what her _un_conscious mind had known for a very long time, and had been attempting, lately, to put across to her with ever-mounting desperation.

Severus Snape was her mate; her match; the man she dreamed (recently in minute, torturous detail) of giving her virginity to; the man she wanted to grow old with; the _only_ one she wanted, inside the bedroom _or_ out. And if he walked away from her now, she'd be… she'd be… lost.

Her arms tightened further- almost spasmodically- at this thought… and when he tensed against her, preparing to wrench himself away, his shock having finally, apparently worn off, she responded by wrapping both her legs around him too.

He tore his mouth away from hers and groaned. The expression on his face was agony. "Hermione," he ground out from between clenched teeth, "you don't know what you're doing to me." He was breathing in short, sharp gasps; his entire body taut; trembling. Abruptly he buried his face in the junction of her shoulder and her throat. His skin, where it pressed against hers, felt as flushed and feverish as her own. His breath, bursting hot and erratic against her, was exquisite... and when he spoke again she gave a shuddering gasp; his lips were moving- _dragging_- against her skin. "You have… to stop… so help me… or something bad is going to happen," he rasped.

"No," she said, tears still leaking steadily from the corners of her eyes, clinging on to him for dear life, "no, the only bad thing will be if you leave me here. Oh God, please don't leave me here, not now that I finally understand what I want!"

He shook his head, still pressed against her neck, half-buried in her tumbled hair. "You don't want this," he said, his voice muffled. "God, Hermione, you're perfect… you're intelligent, you're beautiful, you're strong, and focused, and… and you _shine_, my God, you shine so bright… you could have anyone. You do _Not. Want. Me._"

She had reached the end of her capacity to argue with him. There was nothing more, she thought, that her words could do at the moment. So she fisted both her hands in his jet black hair and pulled- none too gently, either- dragging him back up to face her. Their foreheads clunked. Their noses clunked. His eyes were pressed shut, a deep furrow between his brows. When he spoke again, his lips moved against hers.

"Hermione, this is your last chance. For God's sake, don't throw your life away on me. If we start again… I don't think I… can stop. And if I… claim you tonight, then it's only fair you know… I will _never_ let you go."

Her lips curved up just slightly- slightly- into a shaky smile-through-tears. And she angled her head just the tiniest bit to the side, very deliberately negotiating around their bumping noses.

And kissed him again.


	3. Chapter 3

(A/N: Chapter 1 had naughty-dream smut. Chapter 2 didn't have much in the way of smut. This chapter and the next, which will complete the story, have "real" smut, so if you somehow missed the warning in the summary, and the warning at the beginning of the story, here's one final warning; if you don't want to read "Hard R" SSHG smut, proceed no further!)

00000

It was slow and gentle- for a fraction of a second. Then it was as if a dam had burst somewhere deep inside him. For all that she'd instigated the kiss, he responded with such intensity that it was more like he was… trying to _devour_ her than anything else. His hands, his mouth- they were everywhere; he tore himself away from her lips to lavish kisses on her temple, her jaw-line, her earlobe, her throat, trailing his lips across her skin just as he'd done in her dreams. One of his hands was plunged deep in her dark hair, supporting her head; his other arm wrapped itself around her body, crushing her to him with such frantic intensity that for a moment or two she actually had to struggle to breathe- realizing this he loosened his hold on her, if only marginally; but even as he did so his fingers, with what seemed to be a single, deft motion, found the clasp of her bra through the fabric of her chenille robe, and released it.

Hermione gave a tiny gasp of shock, and then his lips were on hers again; his mouth covering hers completely, his tongue seeking entry just as hers had moments earlier, when she'd stunned him with that very first kiss. He had denied her then- but she did not deny him now. She opened to him, reveling in how hot and wet and utterly intense it was; his desire for her, his _need_- she was swimming in it. She was _dizzy_ with it. Or was that the fever? Bloody hell, what did it matter? It was bliss.

He was doing things with his hands… it occurred to her that perhaps she should be, as well. Hers were still fisted in his hair- it required a conscious act of will to _un_fist them. That done, she glided them down to his shoulders, gripped him there briefly, then ran them lightly down his back to his waist. She found where his shirt was tucked into his trousers- yanked it free- slid her hands beneath the fabric and then back up to his shoulders again, bunching the shirt as she went, enjoying the feel of his smooth, taut skin directly beneath her fingers.

Then she gave a shuddering gasp as he returned the favor- parting her robe and pushing up both the fabric of her nightshirt, and her loosened bra, all at once… and catching her newly liberated breasts in hands that were large, warm, and roughened from years of exposure to caustic potions ingredients.

"Oh my… God…" she exhaled, as he broke their kiss and lowered his head to pull first one pink-tipped nipple, and then the other, into his mouth. Her hands on his shoulders clenched into fists, her nails raking his skin, making him hiss; clench his jaw in reaction. Hermione arched her back with a ragged little cry, pushing her now aching breast farther into his mouth.

He broke the contact, gasping. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. "Did I hurt you?"

It took her a moment to get her breathing back under control. "I'm… I'm alright," she managed at length. "It's… it's just… God, so intense."

He caught her face between his hands; dropped a kiss on her forehead. Then, looking suddenly thoughtful, he pressed a hand to the same spot- to each of her cheeks in turn. "Your fever's broken," he murmured, dipping his head down and to the side so that his lips were moving against her ear, making her shiver. "You must be exhausted. You should probably have something to eat and go to sleep."

"You're joking," she whispered, a small smile curving her lips, "you can't stop now; you said so."

"Do not underestimate me, Miss Granger. If I think it is in your best interest, I bloody well can and will."

She darted her tongue out, moistening her lips. "Then I must not be trying hard enough-" She tightened her legs, which had been locked about his waist all this time, still further, raising her hips, grinding them into his, making him groan again- "because I _don't. want. to stop. _And I can tell you don't either."

This was the truth- the evidence of his arousal was now pressed hard against her stomach- and it was enough to give her a moment's pause. It felt- sweet Merlin- _enormous_. What _was_ she getting herself into here?

But it was too late for second thoughts… as she had just succeeded in pushing him right back over the edge of reason. His lips collided with hers again, and then, amazingly, he was pushing himself back and up, rising to his feet- holding her all the while, her legs still wrapped tight around him, his mouth still sealed to hers.

He broke the kiss, panting, in order to gasp out, "where's the bedroom?"

"Down the hall, second door to the left," Hermione said, and then buried her face under his chin, suddenly overcome by a wave of shyness. It wasn't that she wanted to stop- that was the _last_ thing she wanted… it was just… more… feeling overwhelmed by the fact that he was carrying her, with incredible ease by the by, straight to the bed that had featured so… _prominently_ in her dreams.

He shouldered open the door to her room and then they were tumbling together onto the cool softness of the bed; the sheets, pillows and down comforter all in disarray- it was a testament to just how unwell she'd been feeling lately that she had gone without making it today. Ordinarily it would have caused her acute embarrassment to have anyone see it in its disheveled state, but she was beyond caring at the moment. Besides which, chances were it was about to get a lot more disheveled, and quickly.

She landed on her back, he catching himself on his elbows so as to spare her the brunt of his weight. They were eye to eye again, and they stayed that way for a long time, just breathing hard and _looking_- drinking each other in.

"God, you're beautiful," he said finally, in a harsh, ragged voice. "You're too beautiful, Hermione. You don't understand… you _can't_… the things I've done… I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."

She reached up and caught his face in both her hands, fingers sliding into the jet-colored hair at his temples. "Don't," she whispered, "don't do that. It was war. You did what you had to do; we all did. You need to let it go."

He shuddered then; actually shuddered, his whole body, his hands tightening spasmodically on her shoulders. His eyes fell shut, but there was a deep crease between his brows that suggested that he was most assuredly _not _letting it go. She drew his face gently down to hers.

"I need you here with me," she whispered; "all of you. Please… Severus."

It was the first time she'd ever used his given name. He gave a long, shaky exhalation. Then, without opening his eyes or speaking another word, he allowed his lips to claim hers once more, and their near-frantic kissing resumed.

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He kissed his way slowly down her body, after helping her to shrug out of her robe and tossing it to the floor. Her nightshirt was still on, however- in actuality, it was an oversized men's tee-shirt in a violent shade of orange and bearing the Chudley Cannons Quidditch logo… it had been her most recent birthday gift from Ron. (The problem was, she didn't think he'd intended it as a _night_shirt… any ire she might have felt toward him, however, due to the fact that he had either a)_ actually thought she _took_ that size_ or b) _forgotten her birthday until the last possible moment and then simply grabbed the nearest thing at hand _had been mitigated by the fact that it was _so_ soft and comfortable.) It had bunched about her waist when they'd fallen to the bed- Snape pushed it upward even as he moved his mouth downward, suckling at her breasts again until her nipples were rock-hard and nearly screaming with sensitivity; then planting warm kisses on her navel, each of her hips in turn- working his way steadily, relentlessly, down and down, toward- Merlin, it was almost _exactly_ like her dreams.

Except that when his mouth finally reached the waistband of her panties, he stopped for a long moment, his breath coming in hot little bursts against her tummy… and then he laughed.

_Really_ laughed, too- a genuine laugh such as she'd never heard him utter before.

Hermione pushed herself up on her elbows to look down at him, utterly perplexed. She had no idea what he found so funny, but if there was anything she hadn't expected at this juncture it was laugher. Heat rose to her cheeks; what on earth could be cause for such amusement down there? Whatever it was, it was bound to mean embarrassment for her. A virgin she may be, but she had heard- and read- enough about the act of love to know that men didn't usually crack up right in the middle of it.

"Merlin, Hermione," he said, once he'd regained control of himself, "you're… you're too much."

"I beg your pardon?" she asked, blushing more deeply still, struggling to hold on to her composure- what was _wrong_ with her down there?

He looked up and met her eyes, still smiling. "_Friday_," he said.

It took Hermione a moment to process this- then she flopped backward again, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry. Friday. She was wearing her day-of-the-week panties… oh good Lord. A tatty old chenille bathrobe, a sports-team jersey nightshirt, and lilac day-of-the-week panties. Could she _possibly_ have attired herself in a less romantic or more humiliatingly juvenile fashion? She didn't think so. All that was missing were socks with little pom-poms at the heels. Was he going to pick up and leave now? She could hardly blame him if he did. He must be feeling as if he were about to boff a twelve-year-old… not a mature, intelligent and successful woman.

But he wasn't leaving. She could feel his finger slowly tracing the letters, as a matter of fact, spelling out the word; _F-R-I-D-A-Y_. "This is marvelous," he said, lips moving against the taut skin of her stomach. "Do you have the whole set? Never, ever wear them out of sequence, either, I suppose…"

Hermione groaned, raising her hands to cover her now flaming cheeks. She attempted to draw up her legs and roll onto her side- but he was having none of it.

"Oh no, you don't," he growled, grabbing her hips both-handed and pressing her back down, into the soft, yielding surface of the bed. (Talk about déjà vu… those naughty dreams she'd been having had possessed an almost clairvoyant quality, it seemed- what would that old bat Trelawney have said to _that?_) "You're not going anywhere. And there's no need to be ashamed. I was caught by surprise, that's all, but I think your choice of undergarments absolutely inspired. Since they are obviously causing you some embarrassment, however…" and in one swift, smooth motion he pulled them down over her hips, her thighs, her knees… down, and over, and off.

Hermione's whole body stiffened at this; she grabbed up fistfuls of the rumpled coverlet beneath her, her breaths piling up in a heady mix of nerves and anticipation.

His hands, when he parted her thighs, were gentle, but implacable. "You've no idea," he said quietly, pausing to drop a kiss high up on her inner thigh- "how very long-" he kissed the other now- "I've wanted to do this."

And then all capacity for rational thought escaped her, along with a great sobbing, shuddering exhalation, as his tongue flicked out to unerringly find that _place_- oh, sweet Merlin and Morgana, that _PLACE_- and her back was arching clear off the bed and it was almost _too much_ sensation, it was washing over her like a tide, it was lifting her up and carrying her away, and- and-

_Ahhhhhhhhhhh_…

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"Teach… teach me… how to please _you_," she panted in the aftermath of the mind-blowing orgasm he'd bestowed upon her with his hands and mouth. It was several long moments later; they were lying face-to-face once more, in a jumble of limbs and twisted bedclothes, and Hermione was still fighting to get her breathing back under control. "I want…" she gulped another deep breath- "I want to learn."

A small smile curved his lips. "When do you not?" he asked, quietly amused. "Ever the student, you are."

Oh, God. Would there be no end to the embarrassment she caused herself tonight? She wanted to bury her face in her pillow… but forced herself to meet his dark eyes instead. "You must think me such a child," she choked out, verbalizing her worst fear at last.

"Hermione." His voice was an intense whisper, nearly… reverent. He brought up a hand to cup her cheek, smooth back a stray curl that had fallen over her temple, trace the fullness of her lips with his thumb. "I think you… a goddess. Besides which," he added a moment later, once he'd allowed those powerful words to sink in, "a genuine love of learning is not only an exemplary quality in the very young. I happen to find it attractive in people of all ages, most particularly when it relates directly to my own pleasure and is demonstrated by a beautiful, talented, and very… ah… _naked_ witch in bed with me."

Almost against her will, she felt a smile breaking over her face… and then he was kissing her again, and she could taste herself on his lips, on his tongue, and God, it was erotic…

Then his hand was closing over hers, guiding it to a point low on his body, and she realized with a small start that somehow he'd got his pants undone because the next thing she knew, he was wrapping her fingers around-

"Oh… oh my," she whispered, her eyes suddenly wide and flying to meet his.

Merlin help her, it really _was_ enormous.

And so warm.

She'd never seen one before, which probably explained why it had never featured in her dreams. The mind couldn't produce dreams about things it had no way of picturing. She'd never touched one, either, at least not skin-to-skin. Her previous erotic experience consisted entirely of snogging Viktor Krum, which had included some petting, but only through clothes, and a couple of desperately unenjoyable kisses-cum-wrestling matches with the brutish Cormac McLaggen, which had effectively put her off boys until… well, until now.

She was faintly amazed, when she thought about it, that boys… (no, make that _men_- _must _get into a more mature mindset now, _must_)… that men, _all_ men, had these… well, _these_ under their clothes. Even Harry and Ron, with whom she'd been best friends for so long, had been hiding these all the while. It was disconcerting for a moment, to say the least.

Then a little "ohhhh" of a sigh escaped her, as his hand, still wrapped tightly around her own, began to move; showing her how to stroke it up and down, base to tip. If anything she thought- (good Lord, was that _possible?_)- that it grew _further _under these ministrations. There was a ragged hitch in his breath now, and his eyes were scrunched tightly shut, a look almost of pain on his face, that worried her a little.

"Am I… erm… am I doing okay?" she whispered, a note of anxiety hovering about the question.

"Bloody _hell_, Hermione," he rasped in return, "you're doing better than _okay_." He drew in a shuddering breath through clenched teeth. "In fact," he continued, "I don't think I can… hold out much longer… unless you… _stop_." And he pulled her hand gently but firmly away.

An instant later he had shifted her onto her back once more and rolled between her thighs, catching them in his warm hands and pushing them far apart and slightly up. Hermione had never felt so exposed in her life. She probably could not have tolerated it had not he been looking at her with an expression on his usually guarded face that suggested, every bit as articulately as any words could have, that she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. And then she looked down the length of her body, and saw… _it_… clearly at last. She blushed right down to the roots of her hair and gave an involuntary little shiver of anticipation. "Um," she whispered, swallowing hard, "are you… quite sure that's going to fit? _All _of it?"

He graced her with a rather roguish half-smile that suited his slightly weathered features. "I am confident that it will be a _perfect_ fit," he said quietly, "but if you want to stop now, Hermione, just say the word. I promise I will understand and respect that decision."

"No," she breathed, "I've wanted to be yours for a long time, Severus. Make me yours. Please?"

He lowered himself over her until only a matter of inches separated their faces; stroked her hair back with one hand and then left it there, solid and comforting against the side of her face.

"I suppose that can be arranged," he said, "since you asked so nicely."

She was acutely aware of the hot, hard length of him now pressed, skin to skin, high up between her thighs. Then he shifted a little and she felt the tip of it align with her body, with her… entrance. She gasped and bit her lip.

"This is your first time." It wasn't a question. She nodded, just barely, not breaking eye-contact.

She wondered fleetingly if he would mock her, as any of her friends undoubtedly would have, had they known she was a twenty-two-year-old virgin. But he didn't. He merely lowered his face still further, until their noses nearly touched again, until his inky hair fell down around her and brushed her face, causing her to reach up absentmindedly and tuck it behind his ears, and murmured, his voice and eyes intent, "you're positive you want to give this gift to _me?_"

Again she nodded. And gently, gently, he began to rock his hips.

Her breath caught in her throat, hitching as he nudged his way inside, his progress gradual, nothing overwhelming; half an inch out for every inch in, their eyes still locked on one another until he bumped up against something and stopped, his progress temporarily halted, as she gave an involuntary little "mmph" and squirmed a bit; trying to press herself further down into the bed, to escape the pressure that was suddenly and all at once much too intense.

There was no escaping it, though. He stayed motionless above her as she tried to adjust, tried to cope with the intrusion. Her breaths were coming quicker now; she squeezed her eyes shut, breaking that connection with him at last, and tossed her head from side to side. She felt him catch her face between his hands, and drop a kiss on her forehead.

"Hermione," he whispered, his lips moving against her skin.

She gulped in a deep breath. "Um?" she said. It seemed she had lost her capacity to form proper words. Monosyllabic sounds were the best she could manage under the circumstances.

"You feel amazing," he murmured.

"Is it… is…" frowning a little, she struggled to get her breathing under control. "Is this all there is, then? Are we… is this… _it?_"

She felt an explosion of breath against her forehead, where his lips still lingered, and realized with some chagrin that he'd just huffed a quick, silent laugh. "No, love," he said quietly, "there's more to it than this. Are you ready?"

She tensed a little. "I… I think so."

"Hey." He kissed her temple; her jaw-line; her nose. "This will be easier if you relax a bit. Stop thinking so much, and kiss me." His voice was hoarse, and brooked no argument. She obeyed him readily… at least, about the kissing part. As for the other- as _if_ Hermione Granger was capable of turning off her mind. She could not just stop thinking with any more success than if she were to attempt to just stop _breathing_.

Still, though, several heartbeats later she was beginning to lose herself in the kiss- in his lips, his tongue, his hands still cupping her face, stroking her hair; his heat and masculinity and solid presence pinning her down to the bed. What on earth was there to be afraid of? She'd read that losing one's virginity was meant to be painful- even traumatic if one should choose the wrong partner. But nothing terrible had happened so far, and she hadn't chosen the wrong partner; she was sure of that, she felt it with every fiber of her being. This was the partner she wanted, _craved_, the partner she'd been saving herself for, all this time. This was, quite literally, a dream come true.

Then he gave a sudden swift, sure thrust, eradicating the barrier which had impeded him and driving himself home.

Her entire body stiffened in shock, and she tore her mouth away from his with a cry. Oh… God… _ow_… she hadn't been expecting that. She felt his arms snaking beneath her, between her back and the bed, wrapping all the way round her and then lifting, scooping her up until she was pressed against him with a nearly painful, breath-restricting intensity, almost as though he were trying to… _absorb_ her somehow… just as he'd done earlier on the sofa.

Her own arms tightened convulsively around him too, and she buried her face in his neck. Hot tears had sprung to her eyes; she wondered if he could feel them against his skin. She was trembling now, from head to foot, though she was trying hard to stay as still as possible in order to minimize… to minimize what she was feeling. Because what she was feeling… Merlin help her, it was just too _much._

They stayed that way for a long, long time. Several moments passed before he eased her back down on the bed, kissing and nuzzling her neck, her breasts, her face, kissing away the tears that had spilled over, streaking down her cheeks. The only sound, for what felt like an eternity, was the harsh gasps of their breathing.

And then the inevitable happened. Once she had managed to re-exert some semblance of control over herself physically, once her breathing was nearly, if not quite, back to normal, and the tears had stopped flowing, and she could feel her body beginning to adjust to his size and length within her… then finally, finally, Hermione's inquisitive nature took over once more.

"What…" her voice was little more than a croak. She stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "What are we… are we meant to do now?"

She thought she felt him smile against her shoulder. "Now we move," he said simply. "When you're ready."

She bit her lip lightly, steeling herself for the possibility of renewed pain- and then, tentatively, just barely, she rocked her hips against his.

They both gasped. There _was_ a little more pain, but only a little.

And beneath that pain was something else- she could sense it there. Something that wanted to surface, and that she could just intuitively tell would be oh, so _good_ when it did. She rocked her hips again.

And again.

And then he was moving with her, they were in perfect sync, it was unbelievable how quickly it happened. He brought his lips back to hers and rasped out, "wrap your legs around me," before sealing his mouth to hers, plunging his tongue inside.

She did it, and cried out again, muffled, into his mouth. A moment ago she would not have believed it possible that he could have filled her any more deeply… but a moment ago she'd been mistaken. It was almost more than she could stand, the pressure of it, the fullness- but she kept with it anyway, pushing back against him now, hitching her legs higher still… and even the pain was a good pain now; it was all rolled together with that rapidly building _something_ that she suddenly realized, with a faint shock of surprise, she recognized after all. It was pleasure. Just a new brand of pleasure she'd never experienced before. Even when he'd… when he'd brought her to climax before, with his hands and his mouth, it hadn't been like this- this exquisite sense of wholeness, of completion. This was… indescribable. But she liked it.

Oh Merlin, yes, she did.

She gave another exclamation, this time in surprise only, as in a single quick, fluid moment he reversed their positions, pulling her on top of him without ever leaving her body, his hands going to her hips to help her settle and to guide her into a new tempo, now that she was straddling him, her knees sinking deeply into the soft mattress on either side of his body.

He only needed to lead her for a moment; in this, as in most areas, she was an extraordinarily fast learner.

Then she was finding her stride, as it were; a steady, rocking rhythm that started slow but increased in speed as the wonderful new feeling low in her belly swelled in intensity, causing her to bite at her lip and moan deep in her throat- the ever present rational corner of her mind deeply shocked by the wanton sounds that were escaping her- and then even that prim little voice was silenced as, for the second time in so _little _time, great waves of sensation came crashing over her, one on top of another, almost too quickly to be borne… and she was crying out again and his hand was at the back of her neck, pulling her face down to his and pressing her lips to his own, and then he rolled her onto her back once more with that incredible easy strength of his, and with a few more quick, hard thrusts, emptied himself deep inside of her.

For Hermione, the room was spinning. She could feel the spreading warmth inside, and knew immediately, intuitively, what it was. Dizzily, drowsily, almost drunk on sensation, floating in a warm, soft, safe place as he stretched out beside her and pulled her into his arms, cradling her as if she were the most precious thing on earth, she thought, _so this is what it feels like to be owned by a man_.

The thought should have rankled her- really it should. Proud, strong, independent Hermione Granger, tireless abolitionist crusader for House Elf freedom, owned by _anyone?_ It should have been downright intolerable.

And yet… it was all right, she realized, as he tenderly kissed her sweat-dampened brow. It really and truly and honestly was all right. In fact… in fact, it was better than just all right.

It was perfectly _lovely_ to be owned by this man… because at that moment there was not a shred of a doubt in her mind that she owned him too.


	4. Chapter 4

It was the latest Hermione had slept in a long time… she was usually up before the sun, or at the very latest with it- but on this morning it was the sun, already well up in the sky, that woke her; a band of pale winter morning light falling across the rumpled bed, her disheveled hair, her peaceful face.

She yawned and stretched tremendously, a smile curving her lips before she quite remembered what it was that she was so happy about… she had awoken feeling better physically that she had in days and days, that was for sure- she was breathing freely and her head was clear… but there was more to it than that, she was positive.

Her body remembered before her mind did… she was reaching out to the side before she understood what exactly she was reaching for- and then she remembered, in a brilliant flash of clarity. She was reaching for _him_; the warm, slumbering body that had been wrapped around hers all night, the arms that had made her feel so safe and warm and loved… well, except for the long stretches of time when he'd been too busy doing _really wicked things_ to her, to hold her, per se. _Merlin_, it had been good… once they'd got past that whole deflowering business.

So a lazy, sated, almost _goofy _grin was spreading slowly over her face… until her hand, groping across the coverlet, found nothing solid there- nothing but bedclothes and pillows scattered about, and cool to the touch. Her grin froze, then fell away as a wave of panic engulfed her. That _couldn't _have been just another naughty dream, it _COULDN'T_- it was far too real. He'd been there, she was sure of it… wasn't she?

She shot up to her knees in bed, her expression suddenly a little bit frantic, tears leaping almost instantaneously to her eyes. No- this couldn't be- why was she alone? It had been real- it had been everything she'd fantasized it would be- and to have that wrenched away from her now- it was more than she could bear.

A second later, though, she was confronted by the undeniable evidence of her night of debauchery.

A galleon-sized bloodstain on the sheet between her knees.

An unmistakable indentation in the pillow next to hers.

And an ache, not entirely unpleasant, deep inside. She pressed one hand absently to her stomach in acknowledgement of it.

But then… her breaths were starting to pile up now, and the threatening tears had not dissipated at all… but then, if he'd actually been here, if he'd been real, if they'd _done _those things… the only possible remaining explanation was… was that he had _left_ her.

Which was worse- far worse- than if he'd never been there at all.

And then a pair of warm, strong arms snaked around her from behind, startling her badly.

He rested his chin on top of her head. "What's this?" he asked, a very subtle teasing note in his voice. "Reminiscing?"

Her breath escaped her in a long, shuddery sigh of relief. Sensing something amiss, he turned her in his arms to face him. "Hermione?" His dark eyes were worried. Anyone who knew him less… intimately… might easily have missed it, but already she was learning to read him. "Is something wrong?"

Something in her expression seemed to betray her- (apparently she was not the only quick study present)- because an instant later he exclaimed, "Merlin, did you think I had _left_ you?"

Suddenly embarrassed of the conclusion she had leapt to so quickly, she said nothing- just wrapped her arms around him right back and snuggled into his chest with a sigh.

She wasn't fooling him, though.

Really, why _had _she had to go and choose the one partner who was as clever and observant as she was? It was most inconvenient, when one got right down to it. Neither Ron nor Harry, nor Viktor nor that beast McLaggen would have arrived at the correct conclusion anywhere near so quickly or easily- if indeed at all.

It was maddening. It was also completely and inexplicably wonderful.

His voice, when it came again from above her, was rueful. "You should be so lucky," he said, still holding her very close. "Did I or did I not _tell_ you, woman, that I would never let you go?"

In answer, she only tightened her arms still further about him.

00000

"I suppose you ought to know that I'm a very early riser by nature," he said, long moments later, as they lay spooning on the bed- he was playing absently with her sleep-tousled hair- "and that, once awake, I cannot tolerate lying in bed like a useless lump, no matter _how_ alluring my sleeping companion. The downside of this is that unless you are an uncommonly early riser yourself, you may often wake alone. The upside is that you might almost as often find breakfast ready and waiting for you."

"_Have_ you made breakfast?" she asked, realizing quite suddenly that she was absolutely ravenous.

"As a matter of fact, I have. At least… I got it well underway. It should be about ready to serve itself up any moment now."

"Wait a minute, what?" Hermione asked, suddenly uneasy.

"Waffles," he said, supremely unconcerned. "I recognized your waffle iron. I haven't interacted much with the Muggle world in decades, but I had some contact when I was young. I got it well started, so everything should be-"

Hermione sat bolt upright. "You mean you just started it and _left?_"

"Well… yes-"

She was on her feet instantly. "But all my appliances are Muggle in origin!"

He frowned. "Well obviously, I recognized that, didn't I just say so? But what difference does it make?"

"Muggle kitchen appliances don't _know_ when or how to shut themselves off! If you start them going and leave, they'll eventually just catch-"

And then the smoke detector went off.

00000

They ate cold cereal.

00000

Hermione was just finishing the last of her now-lukewarm coffee when, with a casual flick of his wand, he sent the dishes soaring from the table to the sink, where the water turned itself on and they commenced washing themselves.

"A regular domestic god you are," Hermione observed with a smile, amazed at how easy and natural it felt to tease him. She knew that her remark stood in stark contrast to the wreckage of the waffle iron fire, which neither of them had bothered _Scourgifying_ away as of yet.

But he didn't seem to be paying any attention to her gentle taunting. His eyes had taken on that intense look again- that lustful, _hungry_ look. He unfolded himself from the chair across from her and came around the table- _prowled _around it would actually be a more apt description- and the next thing Hermione knew, he'd lifted her bodily from her chair and sat her on the edge of the table, and was kissing her deeply.

"Look up," he commanded when he broke the kiss, his hands roaming freely now under the loose tee-shirt- the orange Cannons tee-shirt of the night before- that was all Hermione had put on before coming to breakfast. She tilted her head back, gasping as his warm mouth found the base of her throat and he began to suck…

And there, floating directly above the table, perhaps an inch down from the ceiling, was the mistletoe Harry had sent over with Ginny the night before. Merlin, was it only the night before? It felt as if it had been a lifetime ago; so very much had changed.

"I didn't hang that," she said, remembering in a vague, far-off sort of a way just how unwell she'd felt when Ginny had visited. She hadn't felt up to doing _anything_ with the sprig of mistletoe.

"I know," he replied. "I found it on the counter this morning. I charmed it up, but not before giving it a good cleaning. Damn thing was absolutely _infested_ with Nargles. No harm done- I got them all. Really, though, I'd have thought that you, of all people, would have checked it more carefully."

"Rubbish," she exclaimed, shivering deliciously as he flicked her nipples hard with his thumbs, then moved his hands to her sides and ran them down over her waist, her hips, to rest on her thighs and begin teasing them apart. "There are no such things as Nargles!"

"Is that so, Miss know-it-all?" he queried, spreading her legs wide and then lifting them so that she understood his intention perfectly and wrapped them obligingly about his waist. "And what on earth would make you say that?"

"Well…" Hermione hesitated despite herself- "back in school Luna Lovegood talked about them once or twice, but… but she was always talking about ridiculous creatures that couldn't possibly be real. I've never seen a single reference to a Nargle in any book… and I do read quite a bit."

"I see." There was an unmistakable tinge of amusement to his voice now. "So just because you've never encountered Nargles in literature, you reach the firm conclusion that they cannot possibly exist?"

"But there was nothing- _OHH!_-" (his fingers had just dipped between her thighs and begun rubbing lightly)- "nuh-nothing in that mistletoe!"

He pushed her gently backward, so that she was reclining on the scrubbed smooth surface of the table.

"Just because you cannot see something with your naked eye, Hermione," (_Ahhhh, _she whimpered, as he plunged two fingers into her) "doesn't mean it isn't there. And I'd wager you never actually went out of your way to _seek _information on Nargles, did you, having immediately dismissed them as a figment of Miss Lovegood's imagination?"

"Well… mmmhh… no," she admitted, as her hips began to respond to his ministrations, rocking in rhythm with his hand.

"Ah. Well, it just so happens," he said, his lips moving against the sensitive skin at the base of her throat, "that I have an excellent reference book I'd be happy to loan you. There's a very informative chapter on Nargles in there. I'll summon it… Mmm… shortly. Would you like that, Hermione?"

"Uhhhhh… yes!"

"More than this?" he asked, and now it was _his_ voice that took on a distinctly teasing quality.

"Nuh… no… mhh… not more than this," she panted out truthfully.

"That's good." He made a subtle adjustment, and then she could feel him aligning himself with her body, pushing slowly in. "I should have been a bit put out if you had said otherwise."

"Ooohhhhh," she gasped, tossing her head restlessly from side to side as he sheathed himself entirely inside of her. He caught her face between his hands, much as he had done the night before.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, concerned. "You're not too sore? Is this hurting you?"

"No," she whispered, "no, it's just… oh God, it's just so _big_…"

He pulled slowly out until only the tip remained inside her, then pushed back in, taking one hand from her face in order to steady her hips.

"Big-good or big-bad?" he queried.

"Big good… oh God, so good…" she dug her heels into his back; bucked against him nearly frantically. "Oh, don't… please don't… stop!"

"I couldn't stop if I wanted to," he said hoarsely, falling into a rhythm now with long, steady, thoroughly delicious strokes. "Sweet Merlin, you feel divine."

And there _was_ a bit of soreness, that was true… but whoever would have thought that sore could feel so _nice?_ This was incredible. She gave a primal little moan, and then he sealed his lips to hers, and there was no more talking.

00000

Hermione stretched luxuriously. They were splayed out on the bed again, one of his legs tangled between hers, basking in the afterglow; Snape having carried her into the bedroom in the wake of their vigorous kitchen lovemaking, as neither the wooden table nor the tile floor in that room made a very good surface for lounging.

"I'm meant to go to the Weasleys' house tomorrow for dinner," she said now, stifling a yawn- (she'd been out of bed for little over an hour, and was all ready to fall asleep again! Merlin, what sloth)- "and if you and I are really… together now, it would mean a lot to me if you would come along."

"Is that so?" he asked, rather darkly. "I hardly think that I would be made to feel very welcome there, Hermione."

"Nonsense," she said. "The Weasleys are quite warm, really. And I'm not going to sneak about with you, you know. I've waited too long for this. Now that it's actually here, I want a real relationship; a _whole_ relationship. I want you to be with me in public as well as in private. I want it accepted by my family and friends- and it _will_ be- as long as you can keep a civil tongue in your head."

"Hm," he murmured. "We've been a couple for less than twelve hours, and already we're negotiating. All right then, so be it. I'll go to the bloody Weasleys'- but you'll have to do something for me in return." There was a wicked sort of suggestiveness in his tone that she found slightly worrisome. It was patently obvious that he wasn't talking about helping him sort potions ingredients.

"Such as?" she asked cautiously.

"Well…" he appeared to be thinking it over. "Tell you what- I'm in such an uncommonly good mood this morning that I'll give you a choice. There are two things I've been wanting to try for quite some time… once I'd found the right partner, of course. You might almost call them… fetishes of mine. Either-" he shot her a quick, fiendish little smirk- "you agree to make love to me under the influence of Polyjuice Potion- I as you and you as me, _or_… you agree to make love to me under an invisibility cloak in a public place. Maybe a corridor of Hogwarts between classes?"

She stared at him in complete, open-mouthed amazement for a long, long time. And then exclaimed, "Professor Snape! You _kinky man!_"

"Well?" he pressed, seeming completely undisturbed. "Are we agreed?"

"I… you… really… want to…" She shook her head and struggled a moment for composure. "We're going to the Weasleys' house first," she said at last, "and your behavior had better be absolutely _perfect_. You're going to have _earn_ that… that… either one of… _those_."

"Fair enough," he agreed easily. She felt something nudging against her hip. He was becoming hard, _again_. She reached down between them and wrapped her hand around him, a smile playing across her lips as he swallowed a groan.

"I mean it," she said, almost primly, even as she began to stroke. "You have to be completely civil to _all _of the Weasleys, _and _to Harry too. You'll do that?"

"Potter?" he said, distaste plainly evident in his voice. Deciding he could do with a little more… convincing, she tightened her grasp a bit. He gave a slight shudder, and that expression that could so easily be mistaken for pain settled across his face.

"You _will _be decent to him, won't you?" she insisted. "For me?"

"_Only_ for you," he ground out from between suddenly clenched teeth. "For you, I'd slap his arse and call him pretty. Only for you, Hermione."

She giggled a bit at that, in spite of herself. "Oh," she said a moment later, as something completely different occurred to her, "and… you have to sit with Padma and me in our booth next Thursday. I think she'd like that."

"Do you?" he asked, as one of his hands slid over her breasts, beginning to pluck at her already sensitive nipples. "I think she'll be rather inclined to be smug, myself… I've seen the expression on her face the last few times- you're going to get a great big dose of '_I told you so_'. Are you ready for that, love?"

Hermione gasped and squirmed. "I can take it," she said through rapid, hitching breaths, "because I know she'll be genuinely happy for us. I can take all the '_I told you so_'she can possibly dish out. Because I'm so glad… and this is so good… so worth waiting for… Merlin… _so _worth waiting for."

He moved his head to nuzzle at her temple; bury his nose in her hair. When next he spoke, his lips were moving against her ear. "I love you, Hermione Granger," he whispered, making her shiver… and then she turned her head and met his lips with hers, and again, for a long time,

There was no more talking.

00000

**THE END**

00000

(A/N: Yay, another one finished! And my _first_ SSHG finished. Written, as I mentioned at the beginning, to be a gift for a good friend coughAlex25cough who's been attempting to convert me from DM/HG to SS/HG for _months!_ I promised her I'd personally write her a SSHG smut fic, and this was the result. She gave me some criteria to follow- things she wanted to see included and things she didn't. The list of those criteria is at the top of Chapter 1, if you want to refresh your memory. She wrote me a fic too, also SSHG, following the criteria that I set for her- it's called "One Question Too Many" so check it out. Another big thank-you to Maureen for beta-ing this fic. Thanks to everyone who read, and double-thanks to everyone who reviewed. Um, I think that's it!)


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